


A Passing Glance

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Puddles Pity Party
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Carnival, Clowns, Horror, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scary Clowns, Sexual Violence, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 08:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19058854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: An evening at the carnival takes a turn with a song heard in passing and descends into an eye-popping nightmare.TW: non-con, implied character death, clowns, carnies, Hozier lyrics.





	A Passing Glance

He thought for a moment that the kid recognized him. They locked eyes and the girl's expression changed. He was dressed down, clean-faced, incognito. She turned away and he exhaled. The last thing he wanted was to be outed… especially since he'd given his escort the slip.

Marilyn just wanted to enjoy the kitsch and pageantry without his assistant tripping over his dick all night. He'd watched the carnies on the midway cheating young men and flirting with their girlfriends. He'd made his way around a block of rides and a performance tent.

Different kinds of music ran like spilled paint from every direction and became a muddy mess in his ears. Lights flashed and changed color. People moved excitedly, ducked into shadows to kiss and light up. It was beautifully tacky with a seedy underbelly. It felt like home.

The sun had gone down while he and his assistant watched the center ring show: contortionists, trick ponies, a high-wire act and a strongman. Now that it was dark, he hoped he'd blend in even more.

He stepped around a paid attraction tent and peeked through a tear in the side. He froze. It wasn't the blockhead inside, driving nails into his sinuses, or the bikini model with the (probably latex) parasitic twin. It was the voice. Manson squinted, tried to see who was singing. In frustration, he walked farther into the dark to find another peephole.

After a few steps, he realized it wasn't coming from the tent. He wandered across a gravel lot, away from the lights and chatter. It was an indie track, the kind that little girls love, sung like a dirge. The haunting baritone pulled him toward a row of trailers.

It didn't cross his mind that he wouldn't be welcome. He was famous. The rules hadn't applied to him for decades. Even when they did, he'd rather take one on the chin than take orders.

He moved from one window to the next, trying to hone in on the singer. Through one filthy pane, Marilyn finally saw him. He was unassuming, hunched over a small vanity, putting the finishing touches on a white clown costume. He pulled a pair of cotton gloves over knuckle tattoos. The trailer shook with his rich operatic delivery.

_I'd be home with you..._

Manson couldn't take it. He needed that voice. He needed to buy it and twist it and make it his. It wouldn't be hard to get it. The guy was probably working for peanuts.

He meant to knock, but somehow ended up inside. The man looked startled but said nothing. Marilyn stumbled through an introduction and held his hand out. The clown didn't move. His eyes were wide, framed with red teardrops and a bent gold crown.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just barge in, mister…" He saw a large suitcase painted with the words _Puddles Pity Party_. "Puddles. Look, I know this is weird. Let me leave my card at least. I can get my assistant to follow up."

He sheepishly pulled a business card from his wallet and held it out. Puddles didn't reach for it. Marilyn shrugged. He stepped toward the suitcase and tucked the card under the handle, then turned to go.

Another man was leaning in the doorway. He was wearing cotton duck work pants and a stained undershirt. He pinned Manson in place with a glare and called out.

"Everything ok, boss?" There was a pause and he smirked. "You got it. Me and the boys'll be outside."

The man left, latching the door. Marilyn's stomach churned. He turned slowly. Puddles stood up. Fuck he was tall. The black makeup on his lips turned down slightly. His shoulder flexed and the lights went out.

***

For a moment, Marilyn thought he'd been in a car accident. Everything was sore. He was laying down… sort of. His cheek was pressed against something hard. Not to worry. Help would be there soon.

_I have never known hunger..._

The voice. The carnival. The clown. Manson tried to lift up. He was stuck. He blinked rapidly to clear his blurry vision. He could see his reflection, distorted but unmistakable. He was bent over a wooden frame. His clothes were gone.

As the realization of his predicament sank in, he became more aware. His jaw hurt like hell. His balls hurt worse. He wriggled his hips but it didn't help. In the mirror, he could see a wisp of smoke.

"Wakey wakey."

A man moved into view. He seemed familiar, scruffy and dirty, but the memory was fuzzy. The carnie took another drag on his cigarette and bent down. He blew the smoke into Marilyn's face. It was stale.

"Dunno what the boss sees in you. You ain't pretty. Just stupid." His rough fingers tangled in Manson's hair and pulled his head up. "Got pretty eyes though."

"This is a big mistake," Marilyn coughed. "I'm not the kind of man no one will miss. They'll be looking for me."

"Oh, they been here. Looked around, asked their questions and left."

"They'll be back."

The carnie spat on the floor and grinned.

"Maybe," he chuckled, "but you ain't gonna be here much longer. See, the boss is gonna have his fun and then me and the other boys is gonna have ours."

He forced his fingers into Manson's mouth. One was missing the tip. They tasted like the room smelled - sawdust and grease and mice. He gagged and tried to pull away. The carnie held him still by his hair.

"I tell you what, baby bird," he hissed. "You do right by me and I'll give you a head start before we hunt your city ass down and cut you into steaks. You got me?"

He took his fingers out and Marilyn spat, desperate to get the grit and filth out of his mouth. He pulled against the straps that held his wrists to the plywood of the frame. They flexed, but not enough.

"Fuck you."

The carnie's fist hit like a brick, twice. Manson tasted blood and regretted provoking him. He'd often said that freedom of speech didn't come with a dental plan. As he spat a chip of tooth onto the floor, he wished it did.

"Now," the man sighed, standing and reaching for the zipper on his pants, "you're gonna be sweet for me or I'm gonna pull every one of those teeth."

Marilyn took a few shuddering breaths. Tears stung his eyes. He squeezed them shut and let the man pry his aching mouth open. He knew the feeling of a hard cock passing between his lips. He sobbed and focused on not biting down.

The carnie held his hair tightly as he used his mouth. He was careless, cutting off Marilyn's air with deep thrusts. He continued to talk between grunts.

"We're gonna fuck you up good… set you loose in the woods… you think you can run? … I'm gonna enjoy catching you… gonna carve you up… keep them eyes for myself… look at me…"

Manson did his best to comply. Tears ran down his face to mix with the stream of pink drool dripping onto the wood. The carnie wrapped his other hand around the back of his head.

"Yeah," he rumbled. "Prettier when you cry."

He stiffened and Manson tried to brace himself. His mouth flooded. It was thick, bitter. He sputtered and fought the restraints. For a moment, he imagined the headlines: Aging Rocker Drowns in Cum. The carnie held his throbbing cock at the back of his throat.

When he finally stepped back, he slammed Marilyn's face into the wooden panel. A puddle of spit and cum had formed. It smeared over his cheek and into his hair. He coughed and whimpered.

Somewhere behind him, a familiar humming drifted through the the building. The carnie rushed to tuck his slimy cock back into his pants. A door creaked. The man stepped back.

"He's awake, boss."

Puddles walked around the frame. The mirror's distortion made him look smaller than he was. He pushed past the other man. Silently, he took Manson's chin in his massive hand and examined his cut lips. He thumbed them and shook his head.

"I didn't hurt him." The carnie's voice shook. "He asked for it. Look at him. Fuckin' jizz hound."

The clown stepped forward, toward the man. Slowly, he backed him into a corner, next to a workbench. Marilyn couldn't see clearly in the mirror but he didn't dare turn around. Puddles picked something up off of the bench and shoved the carnie into the wall.

There were screams. The carnie's arms flailed in the mirror. Then the clown took a step back. After a moment of burbling quiet, the man wailed. He mumbled and pulled himself up. His hands covered his face. His footsteps leaving the room were halting, almost drunk.

Puddles approached the frame. He carefully set something on the plywood. It was a beautiful blue eye. A red membrane trailed behind it. Manson stared into it for several seconds, then looked up.

There was something like contrition on the clown's face. He cocked his head and pursed his lips. He seemed to be waiting for some acknowledgement of his chivalry. Manson nodded. It seemed to be enough.

Puddles walked around the frame dragging his fingers on Marilyn's skin. He seemed to admire his tattoos in particular. His touch tickled on his hands and arms. He traced the large skeletal piece on the singer's back and began to hum.

"Please." It came out as a dry squeak and Manson swallowed to clear his throat. "Please. I won't press charges. Just cut me loose. I'll pay you."

Puddles leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Marilyn's spine. Goosebumps rose all over his body. In the mirror, he could see the clown untying the wide white collar around his neck. He tossed it aside and slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

The reflection was blurry, but it was clear that Puddles was covered in tattoos. His pants were held up with dark suspenders. He shrugged them off of his shoulders. Manson began to cry quietly. He closed his eyes. The weight of the large man lowered onto his back.

Something slick and wet rubbed over his ass. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. He needed to relax. To bear down. To remember to breathe. To keep quiet. But when the pressure began, panic set in. He shook and screamed, tried to break free.

The clown didn't seem to mind. He pushed steadily. It felt like an entire arm forcing its way in. The pain was unlike anything. Firm hands gripped his shoulders. Puddles went silent. No singing, no humming, no grunting, just panting into his ear. The room smelled like a butcher counter. A horrible swimming static closed in.

It seemed like the clown had been going for hours, fucking steadily through what Marilyn assumed was dripping blood. He felt the massive cock tear deeper into him with each stroke. Puddles bowed his back for an even deeper thrust and licked the back of his neck.

For a moment, he wondered if he could will himself to die. It would rob the freaks of the satisfaction of killing him and free him from the pain. Then again, what would the headlines say? His ego wouldn't allow it.

He sucked in a breath and tried to channel some inner animal. At once, he twisted and kicked. There was a grating sound as the clown's boots slid on the floor. His body shifted forward. Sensing an opportunity, Manson jerked his head back, slamming into what he hoped was Puddles' nose.

The weight on Marilyn's back slid off with a loud thud. He focused on his wrists. One strap gave just enough for him to pull through, scraping a significant amount of skin from his thumb. He pulled the other hand free, then attacked the strap that held his torso down. The buckle wasn't hard to figure out.

He almost tripped over Puddles in his haste to escape. The clown was moving slowly, rubbing his head. Manson darted through the door and into the dark.

Outside of the room, the wooden floor stopped. It was replaced by grass and gravel. The walls were covered in mirrors and fluorescent graffiti. Black lights gave a radioactive feel. He ran down the hall to the right and turned left.

Manson moved frantically through the funhouse, choosing turns he hoped would lead to an exit. Optical illusions painted on the walls made him dizzy. He started to worry that he was going in circles. Every beaded curtain looked like the last one. How many "upside-down" rooms could there be?

Finally he burst into a large mirrored room with a ticket booth in the center. There, on the far side, was a wide doorway that opened onto the fairgrounds. His eyes quickly scanned the room. He didn't see anyone. He sprinted toward freedom.

Suddenly, he was on the ground, gasping for breath. The carnie who flipped him over was built like a linebacker and wearing a red trucker hat. As he fought, two other men took hold of his arms. They snickered to one another.

"This one's got some piss and vinegar, don't he?"

"Bet the boss loves them tattoos."

"Hold that tighter."

The chatter stopped and the linebacker slid off of Marilyn's stomach. Behind him, framed by the eerie glow of black lights, was the clown. He was smiling, just enough to be truly unsettling. His prison-style tattoos were clearer in the filtered moonlight. He held his wrist-thick cock like a weapon.

He approached slowly, the gravel crunching under his boots. Calloused hands pulled Manson's limbs taut, holding him for the painted monster that loomed over him. He closed his eyes and turned away.

The horribly familiar pain returned. Puddles moved slowly. He kissed Marilyn's cheek, gently touched his chest. Sobbing, the singer opened his eyes. There was blood smeared across the huge man's red painted nose. A tear rolled down his cheek. His lips parted and trembled.

The men who were serving as restraints began to buzz in anticipation. Manson hoped that meant it would be over soon. The clown buried his enormous cock, slick with blood, into his ass. He stilled for an agonizing moment. Marilyn could feel his release, stretching his torn body and seeping out.

The audience broke into a round of jeers. Puddles slid out carefully and sat up. Someone tossed him a rag to clean up. The carnies let go of Manson's wrists and ankles. He felt weak. One hand cupped his ravaged flesh. Rust-stained cum webbed between his fingers.

"Marinated meat," someone quipped, setting off another peal of laughter.

Marilyn realized suddenly that he was free. He wasn't strapped down or pinned to the ground. He could run. He struggled to his knees, wincing in pain. A large tattooed hand reached down to help him up.

Puddles' face was tear-streaked, lines of remorse over white grease paint. Manson had the impression that the king of this vile carnival was different from his subjects. He kept his crown by giving them what they wanted. As terrifying as he was, as strong and commanding, he couldn't stop whatever came next.

The battered singer turned toward the funhouse door. It was blocked by a crowd of dirty men. They looked past him, awaiting instructions, then scattered like roaches. Manson stumbled past them. They made no move to stop him.

"You owe me an eye, baby bird!" a familiar voice called. "I'mma dig it out with my bare fuckin' hands!"

Adrenaline pushed Marilyn down a path lined with carnies. They funneled him away from the silent booths and rides, into the forest to the west. He tripped over the uneven ground. Above his panting and the snapping of twigs under his bare feet, a soulful voice echoed.

_When the buzzards get loud…_

The men crashed into the woods behind him. He scrambled over an embankment and veered south. Maybe if he stayed ahead of them, he could reach the road. Maybe someone would be passing by. Maybe they'd stop for a naked man. And maybe aliens would abduct the whole psychotic mob and drop him at his hotel.

Lacking any other plan, he kept going. He tore through brambles, slid down mossy rocks. His feet bled. He thought the shouts of the hunters were fading behind him. Hope was a stone in his throat.

His hair caught on a branch and his feet kept going. He landed flat on his back and looked up. Not a branch. The worn fingers of the clown held a clump of hair and scalp. He put his wide foot on Manson's chest and sighed. He seemed to hesitate.

Marilyn fumbled in the dark for something to defend himself. His hand closed on a broken stick. He swung it, aiming for the knee. The point penetrated and snapped. Puddles stepped back, his mouth open in a silent cry.

Manson's fear caught fire. Furious, he yanked the other man onto the ground. He landed a few good punches before he lost the upper hand. They rolled between two trees and into a rock crevasse neither had seen.

The bottom was covered in fallen branches and leaf litter. As soon as the men could stand, the brawl continued. They bounced off of the walls of the ravine and came together, swinging. Marilyn wrenched free and ran, trying to put some distance between them. Puddles charged after him.

The crevasse narrowed and filled with dead wood. He looked for a way to climb out. Huge arms wrapped around him and threw him to the ground. The clown pounced. Manson pulled a dry, gnarled branch over the top of him as a shield.

Puddles landed, one hand over the singer's shoulder, and stopped. He looked shocked. Slowly, his lips twisted into a smile. He laughed silently and looked down between them. A spur of the branch had gone through his gut. Dark blood was flowing freely.

Marilyn watched the dripping wound. His stomach turned and he groaned. Puddles put a finger to his lips and pointed upward. He was right. The others might hear. He gave another sad smile, blood filling the gaps between his teeth.

A sharp pain in Manson's thigh made him gasp. He couldn't move, crushed under the other man's weight. He reached down, felt the knife handle and the blood. There was too much, too fast.

He shook his head, tears beginning fresh. Puddles caressed his cheek. Black spots floated in front of his face. He laid his face in the crook of Marilyn's neck and whispered.

_They'll find us in a week._

  
  
  
  



End file.
